Song parody of
New York Has a Lump in Her Throat
by Jealous of the Birds
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New York has a lump in her throat. She tore up the letters I wrote.
Long Island Shore is ravaged today. Stones cry out, what do they say? Joggers run in lines of morse
code
a beatle's blood seeped into the road. I store up the fragments grit, unkind words, sweet lover's spit.
Wail me down, baby.
(Wail me down).
Fire escapes and dreams of Hades. (Wail me down,
wail me down).
(The same energy which created a symphony by Mozart is shared by The Beatles in making Sgt Pepper. It is the
same intuitive impulse of the imagination, which in itself is perhaps the closest mankind can ever come to a sense
of the Divine. The interesting part in all this is attempting to reconcile those two impulses: the impulse to
impersonate and the impulse to invent. It seems as though being an artist involves maintaining that equilibrium
in a way that isn't a detriment to you or your craft. )
The caravans of childhood are gone,
but August sunlight scorches the lawn. Dharma bluebells blossom in me, orgastic green vibrates from
the trees. City in mind and city in breath,
a million pixels manifest death. Champagne sipped from four paper cups. Benzaiten is soon to wake
up.
Wail me down, baby.
(Wail me down).
Fire escapes and dreams of Hades. (Wail me down,
wail me down).
New York has a lump in her throat. She tore up the letters I wrote.
Long Island Shore is ravaged today. Stones cry out, what do they say? Joggers run in lines of morse
code
a beatle's blood seeped into the road. I store up the fragments grit, unkind words, sweet lover's spit.
Wail me down, baby.
(Wail me down).
Fire escapes and dreams of Hades. (Wail me down,
wail me down).
(The same energy which created a symphony by Mozart is shared by The Beatles in making Sgt Pepper. It is the
same intuitive impulse of the imagination, which in itself is perhaps the closest mankind can ever come to a sense
of the Divine. The interesting part in all this is attempting to reconcile those two impulses: the impulse to
impersonate and the impulse to invent. It seems as though being an artist involves maintaining that equilibrium
in a way that isn't a detriment to you or your craft. )
The caravans of childhood are gone,
but August sunlight scorches the lawn. Dharma bluebells blossom in me, orgastic green vibrates from
the trees. City in mind and city in breath,
a million pixels manifest death. Champagne sipped from four paper cups. Benzaiten is soon to wake
up.
Wail me down, baby.
(Wail me down).
Fire escapes and dreams of Hades. (Wail me down,
wail me down).
